


Finding My Way Home

by blackblairwaldorf



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27828646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackblairwaldorf/pseuds/blackblairwaldorf
Summary: As Angelina trudged through the Leaky Cauldron―pushing pissed patrons out of her way and dodging flying sloshes of Firewhiskey―an empty feeling grew in her stomach.Of course it’d be a party. It was the second of May. 2003. The fifth anniversary of the day the darkest wizard of all time lost his own war.Diagon Alley was empty, all the patrons and shopkeepers of the perpetually bustling street having vanished.When she found his shop, her stomach flipped.Would he even be inside? He could be with his family. Or he could've been one of the shirtless drunks in the Leaky Cauldron. That seemed like George. The one she remembered at least. Or did it? Hesitating, she paused. Bloody hell, she thought, what am I doing here?They hadn’t spoken since the night his twin died.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley, Angelina Johnson/Fred Weasley/George Weasley, Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	Finding My Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> Angelina Johnson hasn't seen her best mate in five years. George Weasley's spent the last five years wondering whether the first girl he ever loved is alive. Freshly returned from a drunken extended stay in Spain, Angelina returns to Britain to find George still grieving the loss of his twin brother, Fred. After a tense reunion, awkward yet endearing birthday party at The Burrow, and disturbing romantic dinner, two childhood friends remember what it means to be home.

Angelina Johnson did  _ not  _ expect this to happen.

Honestly! She hadn’t shown up at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes with  _ this  _ in mind. She’d down a vial of Veritaserum and have a go at a lie detector test if you’d like. She hadn’t anticipated drinking so much, and she hadn’t anticipated staying out all night, and she  _ definitely  _ hadn’t anticipated waking up in a new bed with her naked body pressed flush against someone else’s.

She did not expect  _ any  _ of this to happen.

Honestly. She only wanted to see how he was doing. 

* * *

George Weasley woke up before his dead twin brother’s ex-girlfriend did.

Merlin. 

In the blink of an eye, Angelina Johnson disappeared. Instead, George lay beside his dead twin brother’s ex-girlfriend. 

No longer the person who made him laugh until he couldn’t breathe for the first time in five years. No longer his captain. No longer his best mate.

His dead twin brother’s ex-girlfriend. 

Guilt turned his stomach. His eyes drifted, studying her carefully: dark skin, rich with morning sun; large almond eyes; marble smooth flesh; coarse curls tangled in his fingers; her lips.

Merlin’s sake.

_ Those bloody lips _ , he thought, his body flushing with the memory of hurried kisses and lustful caresses,  _ I’d do anything to kiss the lips of my dead twin brother’s ex-girlfriend again.  _

There he goes again, thinking of her like that. 

Yet, how could he  _ not  _ think of her like that? 

How could he pretend that she  _ wasn’t  _ his dead twin brother’s ex-girlfriend? At the end of the day, that’s all she was. How could he betray his brother, his partner-in-crime, his best bloody mate? For a bird no less. 

George tried to slide out of her arms to no avail; fast asleep, her grip was possessive and vise-like. 

He sighed. 

Angelina.

She was much more than his dead twin brother’s ex-girlfriend. 

He felt five again, wetting the bed and trying to hide the evidence. How could he reduce Angelina Johnson to a notch on his brother’s belt? 

Hesitant, he slid his arms around her. He glanced her way again, this time admiring how peaceful she was.

Gone was the ruthless, competitive, stubborn, sarcastic Angelina of the day. Pressed against him was the vulnerable, honest Angelina. 

The side George chased after. 

He pressed his lips to her forehead, cool velvet. Angelina breathed. Soft air caressed George’s chest. His stomach soared. 

He couldn’t help it, so he wouldn’t deny it. It would be insulting to Angelina and utter hell for him. 

The need to resolve whatever inner turmoil he had was immediate; George Weasley was irrevocably in love with Angelina Johnson. 

* * *

As Angelina trudged through the Leaky Cauldron―pushing pissed patrons out of her way and dodging flying sloshes of Firewhiskey―an empty feeling grew in her stomach. 

What was she thinking? Of course it’d be a party. 

It was the second of May. 2003. The fifth anniversary of the day the darkest wizard of all time lost his own war. 

Easily the most important holiday in Wizarding history. And what is a holiday without drinking your weight in Gigglewater?

Angelina understood. Living in distress for decades only to have all fears and worries vanish in a second ... it was enough to take up the vulgar chant led by the ancient, half naked wizard in the corner. 

But a strong part of her―and she would not deny herself this feeling―was disgusted.

_ You’re all celebrating death, _ she thought.  _ One death after another.  _

Maybe she was the only person to feel that way. She didn’t know. Maybe you had to have lost someone in the war. She didn’t know that either.

The four previous anniversaries ended with Angelina on the front stoop of her flat at an ungodly hour. Belligerent beyond belief, she would scream and drunkenly kick at her poor cousin as he brought her inside, forced water down her throat, and lay with her until a tear-fuelled sleep overcame her.

Angelina’s heart left five years ago. Her family shrunk with the death of her younger brother, uncle, and aunt. Her close friends, Katie and Fred, died the same day. So many people were murdered―not just her loved ones, but other people’s loved ones as well―that she found it damn near impossible that an entire community could ignore them to drink themselves stupid.

Another reason to despise today. 

Diagon Alley was empty, a sight Angelina had only seen during the war. The patrons and shopkeepers of the perpetually bustling street had taken up residence in the Leaky Cauldron.

When she found his shop, her stomach flipped. 

Would he even be inside? He could be with his family. Or he could've been one of the shirtless drunks in the Leaky Cauldron. That seemed like George. The one she remembered at least. Or did it? Hesitating, she paused.  _ Bloody hell _ , she thought,  _ what am I doing here? _

They hadn’t spoken since the night his twin died. 

She wanted to be there for him, obviously, but she left Britain the second Voldemort’s body fell to the ground.

Considering it the only way to heal from the war, Angelina returned to Spain: her mother’s home, full of familiar faces and food. 

Crying and injured, she showed up at Rafael’s door with a family photo album and her tattered copy of  _ The Great Gatsby.  _

It didn’t take long for Aunt Lucinda to find out her wild niece was living with her even wilder son and turn up at the flat to scream at Angelina. 

She left Barcelona straight away, an immediate regret. What was supposed to be a day visit to her mum’s turned into two and a half weeks of yelling, screaming, crying, and―through the use of various teapots and hours spent watching useless telly―reconciling. 

Her disastrous return was enough evidence she should extend her vacation and not regret a single shot taken or a single person slept with.

Now, after a month of being in Britain for good, Angelina started questioning whether she had actually come to terms. Britain, or even she herself, felt ... distant? Adrift? 

The word for the sensation was on the tip of her tongue. She’d driven herself mad trying to figure out the hollowness in her stomach. It was only a matter of time before she ended up at his doorstep.

The door swung open. A bell twinkled, a sound of merriment that seemed out of place in the shop’s atmosphere.

She strode forward, the shop as familiar as the back of her hand. He was sitting behind the sales counter, reading the Prophet. She grinned. 

“We’re closed,” he said carelessly. 

She rested her elbows on the counter. “Could’ve fooled me.”

George’s heart leaped. Slowly, he lowered his newspaper. 

Their faces were so close. He found her beauty marks in three seconds. Three perfect dots: a large one under her left eye; small above her upper lip; and medium under her chin. Just how he remembered. 

Dropping the paper, he sat up in his stool, only to dumbly stare, as she continued, 

“Because, y’know, most businesses have a closed sign or something.”

He blinked. Had he fallen asleep at the counter again? He rubbed his eyes. She was still there. Here. 

Today of all days! 

She vanished from his life like a wisp of smoke. For five years, he’d searched for her. And here she was. Being a bloody prat.

George couldn’t decide if he wanted to choke or kiss her.

“Our sign maker’s out of town,” he finally said.

“Oh, well. Don’t mind me. Can’t afford anything in here anyway. Hope the owner doesn’t mind if I hang about for a bit.” 

“How may I help you then?” 

George kicked himself. He sounded proper uptight. All he wanted was to hug and spin her round.

Frowning, Angelina straightened and crossed to a nearby shelf. She touched things at random before saying, “Formal with me all of a sudden.” 

A younger, pre-war Angelina might’ve been ecstatic at George’s use of the word  _ may  _ instead of  _ can _ . She found she was only saddened. 

“It’s just the shop,” he lied.

Angelina’s fingers tightened around a love potion. “You’re formal with customers in the shop?”

“Well, it’s a business.”

“Not your business,” she said, remembering the first time she stepped inside triple dub. 

Fred and George were demonstrating Puking Pastilles. In front of all the customers, ages two to two hundred, they took turns vomming on each other. It was the most repulsive thing she’d ever seen, and she’d never been more proud. They were vibrant and colorful; bold and daring. Her eyes misted.

“Hm.” 

“I came to see how you were doing, George. Today’s hard for me. Terrible, actually.” Her voice tensed with honesty. She cleared her throat. “Wanted to visit my best mate, see how he felt.”

George’s jaw tightened. Best mate? Was that still the nature of their relationship after all these years? He remained silent. 

“I like what you’ve done for the uniforms,” Angelina offered before turning away and examining more products. “No magenta.”

“Fred always wanted us to have yellow robes. They look dreadful with our hair as you can see. Lost the coin toss when we opened.”

“You want to honour him in every way possible, don’t you?”

George blinked.

His own family couldn’t understand the extensive changes he made to the shop over the years. Even if no one else noticed or understood the small differences, George did. Fred was imprinted all over their legacy. 

How could Angelina still see him so clearly? 

“Erm―I was ... about to eat,” George said, timid. “Fancy joining? I know where the best sausages in Britain are made.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Angelina apologized as she twisted her uncle’s crest ring round her finger. “Couldn’t let go of fish though, so I guess I’m actually a pescetarian?” 

“No you’re not,” he said in disbelief. Angelina shrugged. “Angelina Johnson eats carrots? She who beat Lee, Fred,  _ and  _ myself in a steak eating competition is vegetarian?”

“Pescatarian,” she corrected.

“You know I don’t understand Spanish.”

Angelina laughed. 

George became hypnotised. 

“People change,” she said. “Five years and all.” 

“Yeah,” he breathed, taking her in.

The braids had been replaced with thick curls that cascaded down her back. Body fit as ever. And even in the shop’s harsh lighting, her skin glowed.

Merlin. 

Angelina’s amber eyes were as beautiful as the first time George met her, but something new flickered there. Despair. George softened, comforted enough to let his guard down. . 

_ Of course, _ he scoffed,  _ biggest war of the century, I lose an ear and Angelina gets ten times more beautiful _ .

“One thing hasn’t changed, though,” she smiled. “Still got a sweet tooth like a toddler.” 

“You’re in luck, Angie. This place has everything.” 

Heat rose to her cheeks; George Weasley was the only person in the world who got away with calling her Angie. She scowled to hide a smile. 

“Where is this fantastic restaurant?”

“Right upstairs.” 

Angelina’s brow furrowed, but she gestured for George to lead the way. 

She followed him through the staff room, up a creaky staircase and into a small flat. Or a very large room. Messy, but not as messy as Angelina expected George’s home to be. 

A titanic window on the northern wall welcomed beams of bright light. Four walls matched George’s robes, bouncing sunshine across the room. The right side featured a tiny fireplace and a bed large enough to fit three people comfortably. The left side featured a makeshift kitchen, a bright turquoise couch and a coffee table. Cactuses, bright flowers, ivies and, if Angelina wasn’t mistaken, stalks of marijuana covered the flat. 

Photos hung on the wall behind the couch. The numerous portraits of the Weasley family gifted Angelina a smile. She soon found the only photo that didn’t move. 

It was blurry, but she saw herself in a red bikini, perched on top of George’s shoulders. They were both mid-laughter. 

The twins’ eighteenth birthday. 

Angelina drove herself, Fred, George, Lee, Katie, and Alicia out to Blackpool Sands in her mum’s beat up Ford. She packed a picnic, her uncle’s secret stash, and her aunt’s disposable camera. Fred had snapped the photo on accident. It was the last time her friends were all together until the final battle.

Powering through a strong bout of sadness, Angelina scoffed. 

“This is where the best sausages in Britain are made? D’you even have a restaurant license, Weasley?”

“Don’t mock my cooking skills, Johnson,” he said. “I guess you’ll never know if I make the best sausages or not since you’re  _ pescatarian  _ now.” 

“I can always determine whether you make the best pies!”

“Well that you can’t,” he said, scratching a faint layer of ginger stubble on his jaw.

“How’s that?”

“My mum owls pies over. The crust evades me.”

“That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard of,” she said, sickly and saccharine, as she pinched his cheek. 

“Prat,” George said, swatting her hand away. His eyes widened. He glanced over, gauging Angelina’s reaction. 

“Wanker.” Angelina grinned until her dimples hurt. The fist in her stomach unclenched. Five years had nothing on her and George. 

Smiling to himself, George headed into the kitchen. Angelina sat on the couch. He returned with two full pie pans and two forks. 

“Apple, your favorite and―”

“Pumpkin, for you.”

“Are you a mind reader now too?” he said as he sat beside her, folding one leg underneath the other. 

“I hate to admit it, but I did pay the slightest amount of attention to you at school,” she laughed.

“I feel so special.” 

Hours of mindless banter passed before George finally asked what Angelina had been doing for five years. He said―hopefully in a way that didn’t reveal how much he thought about her―that he hadn’t seen her around. 

Angelina beamed. She had to fill George in on Spain. 

Her burning eyes were an intense comfort for George, a relic of Hogwarts he thought he’d never see again. He loved watching them melt into light copper whenever she talked Quidditch or books. 

So did Fred.

Even though his mother worried after him for it, and Angelina would hit him if she realised he wasn’t listening to her, George thought about his twin. 

His brother was his best mate. More than, in fact. They were closer than two people could conceivably be. 

How could anyone understand the extent of his grief? How could he put the bond he had with his brother into words? He tried many times, once being at Fred’s wake, but always came up short. 

Angelina noted George’s sudden stillness. Tracing her thumb over his hand, she found herself in his glassy, light green eyes. He came back, slowly but altogether, before glancing down. A frown aggravated his lips.

“How often do you visit his grave?” Angelina asked while placing her empty pie pan on the coffee table. 

Chewing his lips raw, he asked, “What makes you think I still do?”

She laughed lightly. “The uniforms are yellow, the walls are yellow, and you’re wearing his favourite jumper underneath your robes. 

“If you don’t still visit his grave, then you are not the same George Weasley that I played Quidditch with. Also, I would lose a tremendous amount of respect for you. And it’s never been that high, mind you.” 

“Well,” he sighed, unable to determine why his fingers were tingling, “you haven’t gained any manners since we last spoke.”

“C’mon, you don’t have to hide from me. You can lay your head in my lap if that feels better.”

George smiled. Another Hogwarts relic.

The first time it happened was after the Gryffindor Quidditch team returned from the worst scrimmage of their lives. 

George fell asleep before practise, upright on the couch, in the middle of a Charms paper. Angelina sat at the other end of the couch under the guise that she would yell at him so Wood didn’t have to. When everyone headed upstairs, she laid her feet in George’s lap. She prodded him awake with her wiggle toes and begged for a foot massage. He refused, disgusted by the banana scent coming from her socks, until she promised to repay the favour. 

The following week, George said he was dying and laid his head in Angelina’s lap. 

It became their thing. 

George would rub Angelina’s feet as she complained about her mother’s boyfriends. Angelina would run her hands through George’s hair as he fretted over whether he should ask out Katie. 

Even though they considered it nothing more than a mutually beneficial way to help a friend, they never did it when other people were around. 

The entire time she dated Fred, George never sat on the same couch as Angelina. He never stood in the same room for long, either, really. 

Still, if there was anyone alive he could share everything with, it was her.

“I start the anniversary by bringing him flowers. Might be midnight or as the sun rises. I don’t stay long. He hated flowers, if you remember, but I like them. I give him my favourites. Did that today already. Alstroemerias. After dinner, I go back and stay for a while. Hours, even.

“Sometimes, I’ll really miss him. So much that I can’t even go into the shop. I’ll get a whiff of the stupid cologne that Ginny got us for our sixteenth on a passer-by, or I’ll see two teenagers in the shop pranking each other. Especially on our birthday, I miss him. It’s the shop’s busiest day and no one can find me. I drop everything and go to his grave. I don’t have anything to say. I just cry really.”

George swallowed. Centuries away, his eyes were red and glassy. 

“That’s normal.”

“Is it though?” he asked, turning away. “My family only brings him flowers, says they miss him. And my mum is trying to get me to a mental counsel wizard or something and―”

Even though she knew it was not the appropriate thing to do to someone grieving, Angelina couldn’t help herself. She cut him off.

“There is nothing wrong with you. You miss your brother who you deeply love. Everyone grieves differently and you can grieve for however long you want. You haven’t let it affect your ability to function in life. The shop hasn’t been gambled away; you’re not a drunkard; you’re not addicted to sex or drugs; and obviously you can still take care of yourself.”

Through a hazy cloud of outrage, all of which she found directed at her mother, Angelina watched George’s lips move. She missed the message. 

“Sorry, er―what?”

He whispered. “I can’t produce a patronus.”

George should’ve kept his secret. Mostly because Angelina’s face hardened in a way he couldn’t decipher. She stammered. George had never seen a speechless Angelina. 

It wasn’t until he repeated himself twice that Angelina could think. 

“Are you taking the mick right now?”

She exploded before George could even say no. His head spun as she flew from the couch, threw her thin coat to the ground, whipped her wand from her denim trousers, and then faced him, hands on her hips.

“Get up,” she said. She was being harsh and both of them knew it. 

“Where are we going? I’ve got to―”

“Triple dub will be here when we get back.”

“But where―”

She grabbed his hand. George yelped as an invisible, violent, force tugged his navel. 

* * *

They Apparated to a deserted cliffside. 

Not prepared for the journey, George clutched a stitch in his side. Angelina laughed, a ragged sound that took her breath away, as George staggered to his knees. 

“Ange―Angelina, where ... where are―” George panted heavily, his back flat against the cool grass. “Shite!” 

“We’re in Spain.” 

Breathing lightly, Angelina regarded home. She was a toddler again, zooming on her first broom, cackling as her uncle chased her around.

“Bloody hell, woman, you could’ve Splinched me,” George wheezed. “That’s reckless endangerment, that is. Did you know that? Do you have the magic to Apparate two people this far? Something’s bleeding. Angie, my finger’s been Splinched. It’s missing, oh Merlin, I loved that finger.”

“Don’t be a baby, George,” she said. “C’mere. C’mere and look at this.”

Once he calmed his breathing enough to stand up, he joined Angelina. His finger ended up not being Splinched, but a nail  _ had  _ broken. Not that she’d care. Prat. 

Angelina was too close to the edge, and George worried that she might slip. Knowing she’d roll her eyes and bully him if he expressed this, he simply stood behind her. 

When Angelina noticed his hesitation―the wanker―she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll hold your hand. Come closer.”

“Angelina―”

“George, trust me.”

Their eyes met. George took her hand. He might as well have fallen off the edge of the earth.

He breathed it in. 

Instantly, her disappearance made sense to George. This was a place to escape to. Not only was the hillside magnificent―the various flowers and birds that he had never seen before―the view beyond it was perfect.

A large, sandy clearing fed into an estuary that fed into the sea. There were people down below, moving their bodies in equal parts carefree and commanding. The air smelled of salt, flowers, and a number of spices that George reminded George of his mother’s garden.

“Is this where you were?”

Angelina didn’t answer. Turning, George found she was no longer at his side. 

Feverishly combing her curls into a bun, Angelina said, “Not this hillside, specifically, but in Barcelona, yes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It is. But we’re not here to take in the sights. I’m going to help you get your groove back.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said dismissively, having forgotten that George did not know what films were. “Take out your wand.”

“Angelina, I don’t want―”

“You’re going to.”

George rolled his eyes, but took his wand out of his robes.

“You’ve got trousers on?”

“Er―yeah.”

“Take your robes off.”

After George had complied―revealing Fred’s favourite jumper and a pair of extremely well-fitting charcoal trousers―he sighed.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to fail in front of Angelina. 

He didn’t want her to know how devastated he  _ still  _ was about Fred’s death. He should be over it by now. But he wasn’t. 

He had tried many times to produce a patronus, but all of his happy memories included Fred. 

And Fred was dead. 

That fact tainted every memory he ever had. Every joyful moment he ever spent with Fred fuelled a deep desire to isolate himself.

“Make one.”

“Ange―”

“Try, George. Please.”

George met her eyes only to find that the fierce competitiveness he expected to see was absent. Instead, her earthen irises were mournful. The sight made his breath catch in his throat. 

“ _ Expecto Patronum _ .” 

Nothing came out of it. Of course, neither expected something to happen on the first try. But nothing happened on the second try. Or third. Or fourth. No luck on the fifth either. 

George repeated the incantation three more times before tossing his wand to the ground and scoffing, “This is bullshit, Angelina.”

“What were you thinking of?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter because I won’t be able to conjure a bloody patronus.”

“George, you’ve got to think of the happiest mem―”

“I can’t!” he exploded. Angelina froze. “I have no happy memories that don’t involve Fred! Every single moment of my life was spent with him!”

“George,” Angelina started. She had never seen him so angry. 

“What the bloody hell d’you care, Angelina? You weren’t there! Here. You haven’t been  _ here _ . I couldn’t find your name on a stone. I didn’t know whether you were alive.”

George’s eyes burned. He turned away from Angelina’s wide eyes and hurriedly wiped away his tears. 

Angelina’s throat closed. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Instead, she stared at the horizon.

At first, she figured that she should’ve never come back. Then she realised she should’ve never pretended like she didn’t leave. That was something she couldn’t grasp―the fact that her actions affected the people around her. 

Angelina had walked into her mum’s house three years ago as if she hadn’t abandoned her. And she walked into George’s shop today as if she hadn’t done the same. 

She didn’t know what to say. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to his back. “I can’t say it enough. I’m so sorry, George, you just, you wouldn’t have wanted to be around me after the battle.”

“That’s not your decision. You could’ve written.”

“I tried. I promise, I tried. I tried to sit down and write you a letter so many times ... but I couldn’t. I was too angry. I was too drunk.”

She lifted a hand and rested it on George’s shoulder. Tense muscles under calloused fingertips. 

“I wanted to see you,” she said, her voice hoarse, “but I felt wrong. I wasn’t your strong Quidditch captain anymore. You wouldn’t have liked me.”

“As if I couldn’t change either,” he said, the tension in his shoulders releasing. “I needed my best mate. As a drunkard, as an arse, as a mute. I would’ve had you. I needed you.”

“George.” 

“You’re an only child now; I’m not. You needed me too. I think―I thought about you every day.” 

Angelina couldn’t breathe. His plea was earnest. Too earnest. Too honest and too generous.

She tried to collect the right words to explain why she needed to grieve alone, but everything sounded selfish. 

Her chest rose. George deserved the truth. Even if it meant he’d see the cruelest parts of her. 

“Britain was ruined. Malcolm died there because of me. I had to leave as soon as the war ended.”

George’s heart broke. Here he was, treating Angelina the same way his mother treated him. Angelina accepted every aspect of his grieving process and he’d repaid the favor by forcing her to apologize for hers. 

Ashamed, he couldn’t look at her. 

“Angelina.”

She pressed on. “I left my mum, too. That doesn’t make it better, but she needed me the most, and I left her. I was terrible to her. I’ve been terrible to her. I left so I wouldn’t associate the bad memories with people who were still alive. If I had stayed ... I would’ve seen death every time I looked at my mum’s face. I would’ve seen Katie every time I looked at Alicia and I would’ve seen Fred―”

A stumble. She wiped her cheeks before clearing her throat. 

“I don’t see Fred. I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense,” she said before twirling her uncle’s crest ring again.

“It doesn’t need to make sense.” He turned to her. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I’m sorry.”

Their eyes finally met. George took her hand into his. A tense second passed. Angelina intertwined her fingers with his. 

“I understand if you want to leave,” Angelina said, her voice authoritative again. “It wasn’t my place to push you into anything you’re not ready for.”

George surprised himself. “I don’t want to leave. I just ... ” 

“Not every moment was spent with Fred,” she said softly. 

She needed him to know that he wasn’t as alone as he thought. He had his family. And he had her. Her absence conveyed the wrong message, but she would devote the rest of her life to getting it right. For him. 

“Damn well near,” he smiled.

“George, I know how hard it is. I also know that Fred, no matter how much of a ponce he was, wouldn’t want to hurt you. You know that too. Don’t dwell on death, celebrate life and the fact that you got to spend time with him before his was over.”

George stared at Angelina, silent, his hair whipping in the wind. She became self conscious, her free hand rubbing at her face. 

Suddenly, George took a deep breath and said, “ _ Expecto Patronum _ .”

Nothing.

“ _ Expecto Patronum _ .”

Angelina listened to George’s teeth grinding.

“ _ Expecto Patronum _ .”

Sweat formed on George’s brow. He took shallow breaths even though his chest was heaving. 

The air hummed around them. Their fingers, clasped tight, burned. 

He glanced at her and smiled at her brow, furrowed in concentration. 

A thin thread of whiteness poured out of George’s wand. 

When a large hyena followed the delicate stream, George and Angelina beamed. George with disbelief. Angelina with pure joy. 

The hyena ran in circles around them, pushing Angelina and George closer. Angelina screeched, pumping her fist in the air.

Drenched in sweat, George's delight dwindled into guilt. 

Watching Angelina laugh through the hyena’s kisses, George realised that the memory of his last prank at Hogwarts wasn’t to thank for its apparition.

His stomach sank and the patronus dissolved.

Angelina continued grinning. 

“Fantastic. Bloody fantastic you are, George Weasley,” she laughed before kissing his cheek. George’s face flushed. Elation rapidly overpowered his guilt.

The spectrum of emotions hadn’t felt this vivid since Fred’s death. And George had no idea why. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t met other beautiful women in the past five years. And Angelina was certainly not the first person to try and help him. 

But when she came in with her stunning hair, hypnotic eyes, and contagious energy, he couldn’t describe it. The universe felt even again.

“It wasn’t yours, was it?” Angelina asked as she returned to the cliff. She sat, allowing her legs to dangle off the edge. Her lips parted to taste the salt in the breeze. George followed suit after collecting his robes. “That one was Fred’s, coyote boy.”

“You remembered,” he confirmed before rubbing the ginger stubble on his jaw again. “Is that bad?”

“My patronus changed to my uncle’s for a long time once I got it going again. It’ll turn back when you’re ready. If it never does, that’s okay too.”

He turned to say thanks, with a proper handshake and all, only to end up hugging Angelina to his chest.

“Oi, we’re mates and all, but I don’t let anyone feel me up without dinner first,” she laughed, soft breath caressing George’s ear. Angelina’s heartbeat was unsteady. 

“Well, d’you want to?” George asked. When Angelina raised an eyebrow at him, he clarified, “Have dinner, I mean.”

“So you can feel me up?”

“So I can thank you, you prat.” He rolled his eyes. “I haven’t made a patronus in years.” 

A large smile spread across Angelina’s face. George beamed back.

“I’d love to have dinner, you wanker,” she said. 

She went to check the time. Force of habit. She’d replaced her old wrist watch with her uncle’s a while ago. Broken beyond repair, it had been struck with a curse during the battle and no longer told the time. 

Angelina checked George’s watch. “Hang on, it’s barely turned four.”

“Here’s a brilliant idea,” George said, much too bright for Angelina’s taste, “stay the rest of the day with me. Unless you’ve prior engagements?”

“None that I’m aware of. Is this an invitation to irritate you all day?”

“Yes. What d’you think?”

“It sounds promising,” she said, wry smile, racing heart, “but as long as we’re here, I have to take you somewhere.”

* * *

After four years of working as a server at Palosanto, Angelina Johnson became a fifth niece of sorts to the restaurant’s owner, a spindly Muggle named Jorge with a loud laugh. 

The fact that she didn’t have any money on her person did not bother the elderly man in the slightest. Instead, she paid by listening to his numerous compliments and pleas to come back to Barcelona. 

George and Angelina sat on a cobbled sidewalk, eating lunch and watching the bustling street. 

“So, what does the gregarious George Weasley do with his time?” Angelina asked. 

George didn’t answer. Instead, he inhaled ten prawns from his paella and moaned. 

“Isn’t it fantastic?” she laughed.

“There’s so much to taste,” George said. “Is that saffron?” 

“Give you the recipe if you answer my question.” 

“Nothing much. Open the shop, help out the workers for a bit. Then do whatever strikes my fancy.” He did not reveal that what usually struck his fancy was returning to bed. “There’s a family thing today and I’d like to go to Fred’s grave afterward.”

“And you still want me to go with you?”

“You don’t have to go to Fred’s grave if you don’t want to but―”

“Oh, erm, I mean, my family’s there too. Obviously, er. I meant more the family thing? I wouldn’t want to intrude. On either one.”

“You wouldn’t. We’ll mind the shop, go see my family, have dinner, visit the graves, and then―”

“I’ll go home.” The words were thick on her tongue. 

Angelina didn’t feel like returning to her flat. She found that she wanted to stay with George for days on end. 

She pictured herself ordering around the employees of triple dub and smiled at her fish. Almost as quickly as it came, the smile disappeared. Gooseflesh raised on her arm. 

“Right. Where is home?” George asked, needing to know exactly where to Apparate when he wanted to see her again.

“Honestly, it used to be here,” she answered as she watched a teenager roll down the other side of the street on a skateboard. 

“What’s Britain then?”

“Compared to Spain? Quiet.” 

It was also very lonely, but Angelina couldn’t admit that to George.

He wanted to say something, having noticed a familiar shade of unhappiness in Angelina’s eyes, but someone’s song interrupted.

“Angelita!” 

Angelina jumped to her feet. Excited, she searched round before getting blindsided by a bush of thick black hair. 

Raf greeted her, “Señorita bonita!”, before kissing both of her cheeks and saying in his thick accent, “Only a month away from home and you come crawling back to me.”

“I just came for Jorge’s fish, tío,” she laughed. 

“And you don’t write or call? You’ve turned English already.” 

“Still a step above French?” 

“Angelita, please, I just ate lunch.”

In sync, the two cousins turned their heads and spat on the cobbled sidewalk. They laughed before hugging again. 

Despite Angelina being nothing but an emotional and financial burden to her elder cousin for five years, he was heartbroken when she left. Well, heartbroken for ten minutes until he got bored. 

Raf pulled away and finally noticed the handsome ginger standing beside her: a new record. “Guiri, where are your manners? Aren’t you going to introduce me to this  _ interesting  _ stranger?” He batted his eyelashes. 

Angelina beamed. “Raf, this is George. Yes, Weasley. George, this is Rafael González.”

When George held his hand out to Rafael, the light skinned Spaniard laughed heartily. He grabbed George’s face and kissed both of his cheeks. 

Flushed, George stammered, “Er―it’s very nice to meet you.”

“Es tan mono. He even has the accents. Thicker than yours. Sexy. I am so happy to see you again! You must come see Dulce!”

“Can’t. We’ve got to return to London soon. Georgie’s got a shop to run.”

“How dare you taunt me with a pedestrian yet oddly mysterious foreign businessman? I will not be dismissed. If you leave now, then you two must Apparate back tonight. Dulce and I are going to the Nitsa!”

Angelina groaned. It would be a sight to see George bathed in the nightclub’s hazy neon lights. It’d be even better to watch him dive headfirst into the ocean’s crashing waves. 

Desire flooded her. Suddenly, she wanted to chuck their day and show George all around Spain. With a deep breath, she stuffed it down. 

“I really don’t think―”

“What’s the Nitsa?” George asked, cutting Angelina off, a first in their long-standing friendship. 

“It’s a nightclub, guapo,” Rafael grinned. “You drink, dance. Kiss beautiful strangers. Childhood friends, even. We’ll be going at eleven.”

“That’ll be midnight at home,” Angelina supplied.

“Sounds fun,” George said, “I’d love to tag along.”

Angelina’s jaw dropped. 

George merely raised his eyebrows. 

“Venga!” Rafael said. “I need to meet Dulce at Maritime. I am so excited to see you both tonight!”

After kissing them―Angelina ten times alone―Rafael left. 

“I like him,” George said.

“Yeah,” Angelina said, watching her cousin amble down the street. He stopped to yell at a tourist wearing a sombrero. “I love him very much.”

* * *

After two scowls and a minor scuffle in the Leaky Cauldron, George and Angelina sat on the floor of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes’s staff room.

George held a towel full of ice over Angelina’s knuckles and asked, “Oi, Angelina, what does senorita bonita mean?”

“Pretty lady,” she said, flinching; Angelina forgot how white her best mate was.

“And what does guapo mean?”

“Very fit.”

“Erm. D’you mind me asking what team that bloke plays for?”

“Raf? He’s carefree. If you want specifics, he’s bisexual, but whenever I call him that, he yells at me about labels and love being love and sex being a matter of animal magnetism. So I refrain.” Angelina paused before laughing to herself, “He calls himself the better looking Freddie Mercury.” 

“Who?”

“We have  _ got  _ to spend more time together.”

George frowned―Angelina could be really vague sometimes―before coughing, “Did, er―was he ... er, carefree with you?”

Angelina snorted before punching George. “You twat! That’s my cousin! ‘Member the bloke who got arrested by El Parlamento Mágico for doing magic in front of Muggles, but got off because he was officially registered to work with a Muggle magic street performer agency?”

“Radical Raf!” George gasped. “Shite, do you think I made a good impression? Hang on, is being bisexual a Spanish thing? No. That’s dumb. Is your entire family bisexual?”

“Sexuality isn’t real, George,” Angelina said. “Honestly, d’you really think I could move to Spain and live with a perfect stranger?”

George grinned. 

Angelina’s stomach jumped.

“D’you really expect me to anticipate anything you do?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Johnson. You showed up at my front door, out of the blue, uninvited after a five year absence. Eating my food and acting as if you never left!” 

Angelina sneered at him. The way that her round nose crinkled made his smile expand. He gazed at her while she scorned,

“Sure, insult the person who just got punched for you.”

“You started the fight, Angie.”

“And I’d do it again.”

Once Angelina’s knuckles no longer felt like she had dipped them into a volcano, she stood and glanced around the inventory. The medium-size staff room featured rows and rows of yellow boxes, an unwelcome eyesore. George noticed the twinkle in her eye and offered free reign of the room. 

Angelina dashed to a box labeled  **DANGER** . 

She was in the middle of unboxing the  **DANGER** when a bellowing voice startled her. She glanced at George to assess the situation. 

He rolled his eyes and headed for the staircase. The voice―which had started to repeatedly screech George’s name―sounded familiar. Angelina frowned at  **DANGER** before trailing after him. 

George kneeled and greeted Ron, green, bearded, and in his fireplace, with a heavy sigh. Angelina leaned against the front door. 

“Finally! You know we’ve all been ringing for ages, right? Mum’s been worried sick, she almost had a bloody heart attack. The clock said you were travelling for hours! HOURS! What are you doing? Have you any idea how worried we were?”

“Who is this?” 

“You’re full of shite, mate. Poor Victoire, spending her birthday alone because her uncle decided to  _ travel _ . Get to the Burrow, NOW. You’ll have to come by Apparition; The fireplace isn’t letting full bodies through.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Dad says―” 

“Not that, you ponce. Why do I have to get to the Burrow now? I was gonna leave in an hour.” 

With that, Ron’s head of flames vanished. George chalked it up to the fireplace misbehaving as established. Noting Ron’s aggravated eye roll, Angelina chalked it up to fraternal annoyance.

“Should I leave?” Angelina asked. 

“What? Of course not.”

“It sounded like a private family gathering.” 

“Nothing’s private in our family. Ron probably wants to tell us he got his Muggle license to drive before he’s overshadowed by better news.”

“Oh.” Surprised, Angelina’s brow raised. 

When she was a child, her neighbors thought her uncle was her father. Family business stayed in the family, so there was no need to correct them until her mother started dating again and several neighbourhood women approached her uncle to reveal his wife’s multiple affairs. For years, it’d been an easy running gag. 

Angelina wondered what it was like to grow up as a Weasley. Smiling, she grabbed her jacket from the floor. 

“Can I Side Along with you? I’ve no idea where the Burrow is.”

“Hang on. Did you just ask me for help? Stop the presses! I’ve got to get this scandalous news to the Prophet,” George exclaimed, his fist over his chest.

“You’re having a field day of stupidity, I see.” 

“I adapt to my company, love.”

Angelina’s nostrils flared. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” 

George barked with laughter. Outside of being Gryffindor’s greatest Chaser in ten years and having a fantastic arse, Angelina’s Hogwarts legacy were her tendencies to go off the deep end. Most thought she was terrifying, but whenever her mouth set in a grim line and the hollows of her cheeks puffed out, George couldn’t help but watch intently. 

“The only article ever written about you will include the headline: ‘Local business owner murdered by friend gone mad.’ The subhead will read: ‘A surprise she didn’t snap before.’”

Angelina’s upper lip twitched.

George’s heart soared. 

“Did you ever take up anger management like Lee suggested?”

Scowling, she continued, “I’m sure I can find your family’s house on my own. Shouldn’t be too hard with all the loud-mouthed patrons in the Leaky Cauldron. You know what, how’s about I chat up that bloke whose nose I literally  _ broke  _ on  _ your  _ behalf!” 

She turned to leave. Before she could cross the threshold, George let out a loud howl of laughter and wrapped his arms around her waist. Angelina yelped as her navel divided into six. 

Eyes shut tight, Angelina yelled innocuous phrases like “wanker” or “I’ll bloody murder you, you fuck!” 

George’s body shook with erratic laughter. The sensation reverberated through Angelina as he held her tightly. 

Moved by George’s sudden tangible happiness, Angelina calmed to share it with him. She extended a hand above her head and played with his hair. Angelina hummed as the tips of George’s fingers pressed into her waist.

To their left, someone cleared their throat. Loudly. 

_ Oh Merlin _ , George and Angelina thought together. Staring curiously at them were too many redheads to count.

“Hi all,” Angelina said timidly. She elbowed George in the stomach before stepping out of his grasp. 

George, in pain and unsettled by the way his parents smiled at Angelina, groaned, “Mum, Dad, this is Angelina Johnson.” 

“It’s really nice to see you again, Mrs Weasley. And meet you, Mr Weasley,” Angelina said while moving forward to hug them both. “And be here! I spent my entire childhood wanting to visit the Burrow.” 

“I wish George would’ve had you over then. My children spent their entire childhood trying to destroy the Burrow,” Mrs Weasley said. 

“Almost succeeded too!” Bill said, his voice rich with mirth. 

“Who can forget the 1981 summer rebellion when Mum brought a  _ girl  _ home from Mungo’s?” Charlie said. 

“Dad’s back has never recovered,” Ron said somberly. “Hiya, Angelina!”

“Hi Ron,” Angelina―overwhelmed and not accustomed to being around so many  _ white  _ white people at once―said. “Hi all, again.” 

“Please, do sit down, dear,” Mr Weasley insisted before standing up from the loveseat he previously shared with his wife. 

After protesting many times, Angelina was all but forced into sitting next to George’s mother. Molly Weasley beamed. Angelina wondered what the red headed matriarch found so thrilling. 

After kissing his mum and dad hello, George sat down on the arm of the loveseat, next to Angelina.

Ron cleared his throat. He held a glowing Hermione by the waist. After kissing the top of her head, he beamed at his family. 

“Now that George’s finally decided to bless us with his presence, Hermione and I have something to tell you.”

Before Ron could lift his glass of elder wine and announce his news, Bill interrupted, “You’ve finally gotten rid of that rash on your bum, have you?” 

The eldest Weasley son was snuggled against his gorgeous wife as an unnervingly beautiful toddler sat in his lap. Fleur somehow managed to simultaneously support a newborn and a giant opal on her ring finger. What business did Bill’s family have looking like a bloody campaign poster at a family reunion?

“Hang on, Ginny and the boys aren’t here,” Mrs Weasley said to herself. 

“Bill, you incorrigible twat,” Charlie reprimanded with a wicked grin. “He got rid of that ages ago! Don’t you listen? He’s telling us it’s back!”

Ron started to cross the living room, but Hermione held him back with a laugh. 

“Boys,” Mr Weasley said, brow raised, “behave.” Despite being in their early thirties, Bill and Charlie murmured apologies. 

“If you idiots are done,” Ron glowered,” I’d like to tell Mum and Dad that they’re going to be grandparents ... for the millionth time.” 

The house exploded with an uproar of cheers that only a family as large as the Weasleys could muster. Mrs Weasley got up from the loveseat to hug her son and daughter-in-law as her husband popped open a bottle of nettle wine. Bill’s toddler jumped from his lap to hug Hermione’s stomach. 

While Angelina clapped and marvelled at the Weasley clan, George slid down from the edge of the loveseat to sit beside her properly. He leaned against Angelina and whispered,

“Imagine the hair on that poor kid.”

Hermione’s curl pattern was kinkier than Angelina’s and Ron’s hair was the brightest red out of all the Weasleys. Angelina should’ve laughed.

Instead, she said, “It can’t be any worse than yours.” 

George frowned. There was a very specific way Angelina made fun of him. “What’s wrong?”

Angelina tore her gaze away from Percy, who was holding hands with his wife and cooing over their newborn. She blinked. “I forgot to phone my mum.”

Eyes narrowing, George started to comment on her lie, but a loud clatter of noise from the kitchen stopped him short. 

His baby sister shouted: “We’re here!”

Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter, and Draco Malfoy (?) dashed into the living room, all three holding hands. Angelina clocked the enormous rock on Ginny’s finger well before the slender redhead screeched, 

“Mum, Dad, how would you feel about planning another wedding?”

There was laughter and screaming and whistling as the Weasleys brought down the house. Mrs Weasley looked as if she might faint. Drinks were passed round. George nursed a Firewhiskey and Angelina declined. 

“Oi, Angelina, is that you?” Harry approached the loveseat with a grin once the room’s enthusiasm slightly dwindled. 

“Hiya, Harry. I hear you’re getting married,” she smiled as he sat on the edge of the loveseat. “Twice?”

“I am. Just once, I think.” Harry turned to the kitchen where Ginny and Draco Malfoy (??) were arguing, using their hands―both holding a glass of Firewhiskey in their left hand and a glass of nettlewine in their right―to gesticulate wildly. 

“Make that twice. What’re you doing here?”

“Erm―irritating George for the day,” she nodded to herself. Angelina took George’s arm and checked his wristwatch. “This is what, the seventh hour?”

“Seems so much longer, Angie.”

“Where have you been?” Harry exclaimed. “I thought you would’ve been the captain of Spanish National by now.”

“Oh, well―took a break, visited family,” she said. She felt uncomfortable. Her absence was too personal to share with The Chosen One. 

George waited for Angelina to go off on her long winded monologue about Spain. When it never came―leaving Harry and Angelina to talk about Quidditch and marriage―he beamed. He felt exceedingly special, a sentiment that was hard to come by as a twin  _ and  _ the fifth of seven children. 

He stretched his arm out on the loveseat. To a complete stranger who didn’t understand George’s completely platonic but intimate relationship with Angelina, it would’ve looked like he tenderly wrapped his arm around her.

“What have I told you about feeling me up without dinner?” Angelina said.

“You’ll get it soon enough.”

Victoria climbed into her uncle’s lap to play with his mangled ear. George pretended to die. His favourite girl in the world giggled before jumping down and running back to Bill. After George came back to life with a gasping, “I can’t die! I have to get to my niece’s birthday party!” the child shrieked with pleasure. 

When Draco Malfoy (???) called Harry to help him settle his argument with Ginny, Angelina turned back to George. He surprised her with a grin. 

“What’re you smiling for?” she asked, wiping her face. 

“It’s my niece’s birthday, my brother’s having a baby, and my sister’s getting married. I’m over the bloody moon, Angelina.”

“Go be over the moon somewhere else. You’re making me nervous.”

“You’re such a grouch today.” 

“Bite me.” 

“Anywhere you want, love.” 

She punched his arm. Before George could retaliate, his mother appeared before them with her infant namesake in her arms. 

“Angelina, dear, d’you mind if I borrow George?”

“Merlin, you can keep him, ma’am,” Angelina scoffed as George slowly withdrew his arm from her shoulder.

Mrs Weasley corrected her with, “Call me Molly,” while casting a suspicious look at her son. 

Before leaving with George, Mrs Weasley placed the small baby in Angelina’s arms. She had no time to protest. For an older woman, Mrs Weasley was light on her feet. 

“Mum, you can’t just leave Molly with Angelina,” George said in the kitchen. Hushed, he continued, “I don’t think she’s ever seen a baby.”

“Ginny was the last one, George.”

“Merlin’s sake. Y’know I’ve only been here for forty minutes?”

George hated this part of family reunions. No matter how frequent or infrequent, this segment of the night always came. If his mum wasn’t nagging him about starting a family, she was nagging him about getting a therapist. 

“Charlie’s not married,” he said petulantly. 

“Charlie isn’t interested in romance. Allegedly, he just wants dragons.”

“I didn’t know that was an option! How does that make you feel, Mum? Could be something worth looking into, therapy wise, you know.” 

“Stop trying to change the subject,” she said. “I don’t care as long as he’s happy, George, you know that.” 

“I wasn’t trying to. What if I just want my shop?”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“No,” he scowled. “We were best mates during school. I haven’t seen her in five years and she came to see me today.”

“She only came to see you?” she asked, her brow raised. 

“How would I know?” he answered before stealing a glance at Angelina. 

She breathed deeply. “Are you two just bed hopping then?”

“MUM!” 

Choking, George turned into a radish. His mother rubbed his back. 

A quarter of the Weasleys investigated the noise, but turned away when they saw it was only George and Mrs Weasley. The outburst went wholly unnoticed by Angelina, who was engrossed with baby Molly. 

“I don’t know what kids call it today,” she sighed before throwing her hands in the air.

“Mum, were you a bed hopper?” George asked on the verge of tears.

Ignoring him, she continued, “George, I need my children to be happy.”

“I am happy!”

“You’re happier than usual, yes, and I’ve a feeling I know why.” She glanced at Angelina.

“Once again, haven’t seen her in five years.” 

“And I completely respect that. I’m just saying that long absences can lead to catching up and catching up can lead to feelings being stirred up...”

“Life’s not a bloody romance novel.”

“George, do not curse at me. You can’t spend the rest of your life alone because you feel it’s the only way to remember Fred.”

“That’s not―”

“You live alone, we barely see you, you can’t produce a patronus―”

“Actually,” George interrupted, full of pride, “I made one this morning. Angie helped me out.” 

Molly Weasley beamed. George’s stomach plummeted.

The redheaded matriarch glanced at Audrey and Angelina on the loveseat. Angelina bounced her one-year-old granddaughter on her knees, causing Molly II’s excited giggles to drift into the kitchen. Percy’s wife, who rarely allowed people to touch her baby, looked at Mrs Weasley and nodded pleasantly. 

“What’re you two doing for the rest of the day?” 

George was too captivated by the excited gleam in Angelina’s eyes to respond. He always thought that tender glow was reserved for Quidditch and books. What else made Angelina’s eyes so luminous? 

The urge to show her Molly’s favourite tickle spot was overwhelming. 

“George,” his mother repeated patiently, “what’re you two doing for the rest of the day?”

“We’re going out for dinner. And then dancing,” George said after he tore his eyes from Angelina’s smile. 

“Dancing? You don’t dance.”

“It’s Angelina.” George’s mum grinned, so he clarified, “Not like that. I just meant if I tell her I don’t want to dance, she’ll just drag me onto the floor and make me. She’s real pushy. You can relate.” 

“I like her. I want you to have her round more often.”

“We’re not really like that,” George said as his mum headed for Angelina. 

He winced. If he didn’t put a pin in this, he would be engaged (or profoundly embarrassed) within the hour. George collected himself, preparing to join the conversation and monitor everything his mum said. 

Unfortunately, his baby sister and her fiancé and his fiancé ambushed him. 

“Are you two shagging?” Ginny asked, slightly pissed.

“Merlin’s sake, no!” 

“And why the hell not, Weasley?” Draco asked, very pissed. 

“Your baby is so bloody adorable,” Angelina said to Percy’s wife at the same time. “Oops, sorry, I guess she shouldn’t hear curses yet. How old is she?”

“Eleven months. You’re so at ease. D’you have children of your own?”

Angelina screamed with glee as Molly arrived. 

“No,” Angelina laughed, “if I had a sweetheart like this, I couldn’t bear to be away from her for more than a second.”

_ Yes, _ Molly Weasley thought once again,  _ I like her very much.  _

* * *

The rest of the evening was, as she would later explain to George, the maddest birthday party for a toddler Angelina had ever attended. And Draco Malfoy’s then unexplained―now completely obvious―presence wasn’t even the weirdest part. 

She decided that the Weasleys were not a normal family after the miniature dragon in Charlie’s pocket set the couch on fire. 

Soon after, she decided that she loved the Weasleys: after Bill threw Fleur in the pond, she threw a hex at him, only to miss and turn Harry into a slug. All because Ron asked Bill whether his developing dad bod was purposeful! 

In the midst of the chaos, Angelina leaned against George and said, “I can see where you get it from.”

After Fleur was Charlie, and after Charlie was Ginny, and after Ginny was anyone else thick headed enough to try and take down Bill. 

“You don’t want to take a dip in the pond?”

“Not really,” Angelina said as she gently laid her hand on George’s waist.

George was so touched by Angelina turning to him for protection that he forgot she was the biggest prat he had ever met. He regained his memory when she shouted, “BILL! INCOMING,” and pushed George toward his eldest brother.

George hit the water with a satisfying plop. Bent at the waist, Angelina cackled.

When George surfaced for air―his visibly darker hair clinging to his face―he yelled, “I’m your brother. Get her!”

Angelina turned to run. Unfortunately, when you wage war on a single Weasley, a hundred more fill up the ranks of defense. Charlie, still drenched, captured her immediately. He threw her to Bill as if she weighed nothing. She screamed bloody murder before being submerged in ice cold water. 

Angelina clawed her way to the surface. Gasping loudly, she pushed sodden curls out of her face. 

“OI!” George laughed. “Are you going to cry on me, Johnson?”

“Shut up!” she said, at a loss for anything better, through chattering teeth. She tried to swim. The water was so cold that it felt like she was lugging around blocks of ice. When she finally made it to the edge of the pond, George held out his hands. “Bloody wanker if you think I’m falling for that.”

“Come on, Angie,” he grinned, “you’re shaking. Let us help you up.”

“Piss off,” she said as she scrambled to freedom.

Before she could stand, George scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder. She gripped his waist, alarmed by the sudden space between both her and the ground  _ and  _ her bum and George’s face.

“George!” she laughed even though her entire body trembled at the thought of him dropping her into the pond. He swung her back and forth as if she were a rag doll.

His chest rumbled. “What’s that? Is that an apology I hear?”

“Over my dead body!” 

Having been a child gymnast, Angelina could’ve tumbled out of George’s clutches at any moment. She sort of liked the way his hands gripped her thighs though. 

“We can make that happen,” he said. Over the surface, he fake dropped Angelina.

“Argh! George!” Heart racing, Angelina held him even tighter. “Pleaaaaaase put me down.” 

“Hm.” Again, he fake dropped her. 

She shouted again. “George, please!” 

“Sounds you’ve learned your lesson.” After a final fake drop, George gently lowered her to the ground. 

They sat side by side, watching as Draco finally pushed Bill into the pond. Wailing, Victoire jumped in after her father. 

“How does that baby know how to swim?” Angelina asked.

“I don’t think she does,” George said. The Weasley siblings started, but Fleur beat everyone to the rescue. 

George breathed with relief. One foot on each of her parent’s torsos as they held hands and floated in the water, Victoire gave a victory speech to her extended family, who were now laughing on the sidelines. 

He couldn’t believe that Bill had the most dramatic extension of the family. His Galleons had always been on Ginny, Harry, and Draco.

“Victoire is so brave. And bold. And really funny. Another generation of Weasleys to plague the Gryffindor house, clearly.” 

“Nah, Percy’s kid is destined for Ravenclaw,” George said. “She doesn’t even have red hair, the fake.” 

“Some uncle you are!” Angelina cackled. 

“Percy’s always been the black sheep. A rebel. He’s not particularly funny, y’know?”

Molly called out from the Burrow. “Supper’ll be done in ten! Wash up, everyone!” 

George leaned against Angelina and asked, “What d’you think of graves and then dinner?” 

“That’s alright. Where are we going for dinner?”

“Hm. D’you want to get dressy?”

“Only if I get to see your fantastic legs in a dress.” 

“Prat.”

“Wanker.”

“Ready to leave?”

“Yeah.”

After bidding his family goodbye, George took Angelina’s hand and Apparated from his childhood house.

* * *

Five years ago, one hundred and thirty two people died in the Battle of Hogwarts. Wizards, house elves, Squibs, Death Eaters, and children. All gone. 

The record number of casualties marked the final battle as the bloodiest and most devastating of the Second Wizarding War. 

The Ministry of Magic dealt with the burial arrangements. Five officials decided all of the deceased would share a collective resting place. 

Cloaked in heavy anti-Muggle protective charms, the mass graveyard stood right outside of Hogsmeade. 

Marble arches surrounded the gravestones. A small sign outside the arches explained that everyone buried inside died fighting for the cause they believed in. Rows upon rows of graves, sorted alphabetically. 

Angelina had only been to the graves once. With her mother. She’d forgotten. Malcolm was buried only one row away from his murderer. Anger swept over her once they came across the Johnsons. 

“Go on,” she said when George stopped with her. Avoiding his gaze, she squeezed his hand. “I’ll meet you when I’m done.”

George’s lips gently brushed against her cheek. She pushed him away. As he left, Angelina conjured five bouquets of flowers. 

Eventually, he reached his brother’s plot. At least twenty bouquets, several candles, and a few tattered envelopes on the grave. Fred was always the better liked one. 

He sat down behind the headstone. Leaning against the cool marble, his lips parted. 

George caught Fred up. He made a breakthrough on the portable volcano. He found their first batch of Puking Pastilles. Ron and Hermione decided to have a mad-haired gremlin. The diamond on Ginny’s finger and emerald on Draco’s. 

Spain. Angelina. Her eyes. 

His smile spread. 

Realizing it was wildly inappropriate to be happy at his dead twin brother’s grave, George’s smile dissolved into a frown. 

“Today’s ... been a dream.”

Guilty, he scoffed. His stomach churned. 

“Freddie, when you died, a part of me left with you. You know that. There’s no bringing it back. But I’ve wished for Angelina to be here so many times and now she is. It didn’t feel ... so hard today.” 

“Fuck, I’m evil. I don’t know what to do. I feel terrible when I’m not happy. I feel bad when I’m happy. When Angelina’s around ... I feel free.”

He lapsed into silence. His fingers danced in dewy grass, an unsuccessful distraction from the overwhelming quiet around him. Why was no one visiting their dead and crying noisily? 

George had to admit it; he had feelings for Angelina. And they weren’t friendly. He thought years of repressing them and the changes people endure in life would keep them from resurfacing. 

He should’ve known better.

The second she walked into the shop, he fell for her all over again. 

But Fred felt the same way about Angelina when he was alive. At least, George assumed he did. How could he not? They dated for a month. And then they broke up with no fuss. It was never brought up again. Angelina was so adamant that it didn’t happen that everyone eventually forgot. Except George. To his death, the complexities of his relationship with Angelina was the only secret Fred kept from his twin. 

George’s rampant thoughts formed a knot in his brow, large enough to invite pain. 

Angelina called out his name. 

Standing, he stepped from behind Fred’s gravestone. 

Her eyes were red and swollen. Crouching, she delivered a bouquet of orchids to Fred’s grave. She whispered, hoarse, “Hi Fred.” 

Having never seen Angelina cry before, George bit his lip. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said before wiping her eyes. She stood. 

“You sure?”

“No.” Angelina turned. Her gaze drifted across the graves. “How are we supposed to live without them?” 

“Erm. Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“Do we be better? Do we be worse? Do we never move on?”

“I think ... we have to live better. For them, you know? It’s just hard.” 

“Yeah. My erm―dad couldn’t handle being married to a witch. So he left and er―my uncle stepped in. He would’ve loved you. And my uncle’s wife was a Muggle. A nurse. She went to Hogwarts to help the wounded. And Malcolm. Malcolm, he, he jumped on ... when I was Apparating. I lost him. He was only ... I should’ve been ... ” Her voice cracked. 

Angelina couldn’t continue without a new fit of tears. “It’s unfair.” 

George tried. “I would hug you, but I haven’t bought you dinner yet.”

Angelina laughed, a sound so desperate that George’s chest tightened, before demanding, “George, feel me up.”

In one long stride, George pulled Angelina into his arms. She buried her face in the crook of his neck. 

One of George’s calloused hands rubbed circles on her back. The other tangled fingers in her curls. 

They stood there, holding on to each other as the world howled. 

Angelina was overcome. Guilt and elation battled in her stomach as she whispered, “I’m sorry.” Could he feel it? The well of intense love Angelina had for him? How sorry she was for leaving? 

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He tightened his hold on her as the wind threatened to move them. Could she feel it? The depth of George’s care for her? How much he wanted to make up for all the moments he wasn’t there? 

Everything slowed. They unraveled themselves. 

“It’s so unfair.” 

Angelina kneeled in front of Fred’s tombstone. She extended her hand. She caressed the engraved letters before her fingers brushed against her lips. 

Silently, George and Angelina left Fred’s grave. 

* * *

They both took long showers, willing the tension in their shoulders to wash away. 

Angelina did fancy work with her hair, styling it into an intricate bun with curls falling down near her ears. George let his air dry, hoping for the best. 

She placed her favourite perfume in the center of her wrists and between her cleavage. He spritzed his best cologne round his person.

It wasn’t until they went into their closets that each realised they were about to go on a date. No matter how flippantly they planned it or how platonic they convinced themselves their feelings for the other were. It was a date. People would see them out on the street and assume they were madly in love. Or assume they were starting a journey to falling madly in love.

As George dressed in a long-sleeved maroon oxford shirt and black trousers, he hoped Angelina would clutch his arm and notice how toned his bicep was. 

As Angelina shimmied into a scarlet halter dress, she hoped she would catch George admiring how the thin material clung to her body. 

Both pretended these were completely normal things to wish for when going to dinner with an old friend.

It was a little past ten. 

George left the shop and headed for the Leaky Cauldron. 

Angelina sat at the bar. 

“What’s your poison, miss?” the barman asked. 

“Er―d’you have scotch?”

He grinned. “First date?”

She felt like breaking a stool and impaling him with it. “Can you get me a bloodied stiff drink, please?” she snapped. 

“Didn’t take you for the type, Johnson.”

George’s breath was hot on the back of her neck. 

The barman handed her a small glass of scotch. She apologized for her temper before turning to George and murmuring, “Hi.”

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

“Fantastic. I’m with you again, after all. I cut this for you.” He brought a single red rose from behind his back. 

Angelina’s heart jumped. Their fingers brushed against each other as she accepted it. 

George Weasley was thoughtful, fit, ruthless yet compassionate, hilarious, a fantastic Beater and, above all, her absolute best mate. 

She made a large production of sipping her scotch to hide a scowl. 

“D’you really need to get pissed before going out to dinner with me?”

“I don’t get pissed on one sip of scotch,” Angelina said before tipping her head back and swallowing as much alcohol as she could. 

Incidentally, it proved to be the entire glass. 

After the scotch trickled down her throat, smooth and scorching, Angelina’s muscles relaxed. She brought the rose above her head and buried it at the front of her bun. Wiping her face, she asked, “How does it look?” 

Suddenly timid, she willed herself to meet George’s gaze. 

She blinked. George’s breath caught in his throat; Angelina’s thick eyelashes fluttered softly, dimming the roaring fire in her eyes. 

“Beautiful.” 

“Cool.” 

Angelina dropped a Galleon on the wood of the bar before leaping from the bar. She linked George’s arm into hers. They left.

Pleased beyond measure, George smiled at his shoes. 

When they finally came upon the restaurant, Angelina whistled. 

A slender maître d’hôtel placed them at an outside table upon George’s request. After bringing them two glasses of the house wine, he left the bottle in an ice bucket by their table.

Before George could brag about his new found knowledge of high-end dining, Angelina told him to shut up and not ruin the moment.

There was nothing particularly outrageous about the dinner itself until dessert when George suddenly asked Angelina,

“Back at the Burrow, you were upset for three minutes. Why?”

“What? When?”

“When I said Ron and Hermione’s kid was going to have mad hair.”

Unconsciously, Angelina lips pursed. She swallowed her last sip of wine before admitting, “I like babies.”

“Er―what else?” George asked, confused, not understanding how that would’ve ruined her mood. Well, it could have if Angelina liked babies so much that she didn’t appreciate George insulting them.

“I like babies and all the stuff that comes with them. Waking up to the love of your life watching you sleep, breakfast in the morning, the like.”

Angelina tried to pass off her confession as something casual. George found comfort in her burning eyes. 

“Why’re you embarrassed to admit that?”

“I dunno. It’s the oddest thing. I never thought of it in Spain, with all the jello and back shots, and especially not at Hogwarts, but coming back and finding all of the babies and people getting married? It’s a bloody nuisance.”

“Odd. You want to get married and my mum’s been nagging me to get married for two years. So odd,” George murmured before sipping his wine. 

Angelina’s entire body burned. For the millionth time, she was grateful to be Nigerian and Spanish. She glowered at George to hide her embarrassment. 

“I don’t want to get married, really. Not now. I think ... I want someone there.” George gazed at her. Angelina forced a laugh: “Stop looking at me that way. I’ve obviously had too much to drink, Merlin’s sake.”

“You only had a scotch and two glasses of wine. Must have a weak tolerance.”

“Must’ve if I told you that,” Angelina said.

“D’you regret telling me?”

Before Angelina could answer, their waiter appeared and promptly informed them that it was closing time. George paid and escorted Angelina out.

“It’s ten after midnight,” George declared. “Shall we dance?”

“Suppose so―is that thunder?” Angelina was answered with an unmistakable flash of lightning. “Merlin’s sake,” she said when a droplet of rain fell on her head. 

She chucked her heels before dashing to the Leaky Cauldron.

George blinked. Angelina had disappeared. He stood in the rain, shocked, before chasing after her. 

By the time they made it past the Leaky Cauldron and into George’s shop, both of them were completely drenched. 

“Sorry for taking off,” Angelina said as she jumped on the counter, “but I can’t wash my hair again. Can we reschedule dancing? I never thought I would say this, but I’m too exhausted to grind on someone.”

George wasn’t listening. 

The rain had made Angelina’s dress transparent. 

Red chiffon, now completely sheer, allowed him to see everything. The curvature of her hips, a black thong hugging each side. The shallow belly button and toned abs. The erect nipples. The sharp collarbones. 

There was a stiffening in George’s pants. 

Angelina was ignorant of her semi nudity as she let her bun down. The rose fell to the floor. She shook her sodden, lengthy curls and her breasts bounced in response. 

“Angie.” George crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you come back? Why’d you come see me?” 

Desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face, George’s question came out strained. He rubbed at a bulging vein in his neck. 

Angelina stared at him. Hadn’t she already made this obvious? 

“I was always going to come back to you. Just took longer than expected.”

George nodded. That was that. He could blame it on the three glasses of wine. He strode forward and nestled himself between Angelina’s legs. She scoffed. He placed his hands on her hips. 

His lips captured hers. 

Angelina’s heart skipped a beat. 

She kissed him back. 

George’s tongue dipped into her mouth and explored eagerly. She tasted like scotch and sweet mint. He hummed, content, into her mouth as their tongues danced. 

Her breathing labored as George’s hands roamed over her thighs. Angelina’s nails trailed down his back. 

A loud moan grew in the back of his throat.

She ripped off his shirt. 

Once her lips moved to the sensitive skin on his collarbone, George lifted Angelina from the counter. She wrapped her legs around his lower back, locking her arms around his neck. His fingers dug into her hips, bruising them. 

Angelina kissed every open area of George’s skin as he stumbled through the store. In the staff room, he pressed her against any surface he could. Boxes fell to the ground and fireworks erupted in the tiny room. 

She laughed, wicked and loud. George went forward to press his lips against her collarbones and clothed breasts.

“Beautiful,” he breathed against her skin, trailing kisses up her neck, “beautiful, beautiful.” 

Angelina grabbed George’s chin. Her eyes were ferocious. She squeezed his jaw to spit in his open mouth. 

He dashed up the stairs.

She tangled her fingers in George’s hair. His erection strained against his trousers. Legs trembling, he felt like he was about to explode. 

“George,” Angelina breathed against his ear. 

He sat down on the edge of the bed. She straddled his lap. George trailed his fingers over the back of her dress, trying to find the clasp. 

“Mhh―yes?” He panted, irregular breaths; Angelina’s arse sat, tantalizing, on his thighs. George’s hips rolled upwards, pushing his erection against the front of her knickers. Angelina’s thought escaped her. 

A loud moan fell from her lips. 

George’s erection throbbed violently. He became lightheaded. 

Stirred by the sound of Angelina’s pleasure, George repeated the roll of his hips. With a firm grip on her waist, he held her captive. 

Not one to be outdone, Angelina rolled down to meet George. She grabbed a fistful of his hair. Pulling his head backward, she nipped at his neck. 

George moaned, violent, against her.

Angelina flooded with moisture. 

They continued with their erotic dance until both felt like they were on fire. They needed less clothes and more contact. 

Burning skin, Angelina’s mind was several universes away when she demanded, “Take off your trousers.”

George lifted Angelina, turned her round and pushed her into his bed. 

Standing, he unbuckled his belt. His trousers fell from his hips as Angelina undid the clasp on her dress. 

She shimmied out of it before throwing the dress at George.

He kneeled on the bed, breathless, and memorized everything. Angelina Johnson was in his bed, wearing nothing but a pair of tiny, lace knickers. 

“Merlin’s sake,” he breathed. 

Angelina grinned and crawled to him. She pressed her mouth against his neck. Light kisses against his taut skin as she palmed his erection. She bit and sucked on him, revelling in his shudder. Her kiss only lasted minutes before George laid her down. 

His mouth returned to hers hungrily, capturing her breath, before he trailed his kisses downward. First, a spot behind her ear that made Angelina squirm underneath him, then her neck. His tongue danced over her breasts, drawing patterns and taking both nipples into his mouth. She called out his name, crying, as his lips slid across her stomach. His tongue dipped into her belly button, hands moving freely. 

George pulled back. He lifted her right leg over his shoulder and pressed his erection against the front of her knickers. Angelina whimpered. George pressed a soft kiss to her ankle before nipping at the back of her knee. He leaned closer to kiss the inside of her thigh, his erection pulsating against her.

“George, please.” 

He massaged her. Angelina clenched the sheets as George hovered over her. Moaning, her chest lifted from the bed. 

He brought his hand away. George grabbed Angelina by the chin and pushed his drenched fingers inside her mouth. She sucked, greedily lapping up the taste of herself. 

Wild and blazing, Angelina’s eyes locked with George’s, his fingers still on her tongue. His muscles spasmed. Droplets of precum slid down his leg. 

He moved down. George pressed his lips against her clitoris, swallowing her wetness on his lips. 

His muscles spasmed once more. 

George turned Angelina over and pressed his chest against her back. One of his hands held her hips in place as the other disappeared beneath her knickers. Her cheek pressed flat against the bed, Angelina chanted a mantra of  _ please, please, please, please, please _ as George’s fingers simultaneously rubbed her clit and pumped in and out of her. 

Beads of sweat dotted Angelina’s brow as George filled her up. 

“George, I’m going ...” 

All but sobbing, Angelina was on the verge of a powerful orgasm before George withdrew his hands. Breathless and disoriented, she lifted her head. 

George pressed his lips to Angelina’s arsehole. 

Her eyes widened. She felt like she was back in Weasleys’ pond. She blurted, “Ah, George, hang on. Stop.” 

Immediately, he pulled back and rested on his knees. Angelina turned round and sat up. She bit her lip and counted backward from ten. 

“Er, sorry, are you not into ...”

“No, I am, I just―” She shook her head. Minutes, hours even, passed before her mind cleared. “D’you want to do this?” George nodded dumbly. Angelina covered her body with her arms, “I meant can you do this?”

George looked down at his tented pants and back to Angelina. “Yep.”

Angelina crept forward. She rubbed the prickly skin of George’s cheek with her thumb. He nipped at her lips. 

She breathed into his mouth, “I can’t do this.”

He froze against her. Pinching his thigh, George’s mouth set in a thin line. She rested her head in the crook of his neck. The beat of his heart slowed down until there was nothing there. His breath, warm against her ear, regulated. 

George untangled himself.

“I’m so sorry, George,” she pleaded.

He stood and gazed out the window. His pale body glowed under the moonlight. 

George ran his hands over his face. “You have nothing to apologize for.” 

Angelina draped George's duvet over her nude flesh before she joined him at the window. Her cheek pressed against his tense shoulder. 

“Is it .. is it Fred?” George’s breath caught in his throat. 

Angelina sighed. “Yes. I mean. No, but yes. It’s―it’s me.” 

For two weeks after the Yule Ball, Angelina and Fred hung out more than usual. It was just mindless snogging and intense under-uniform fondling. 

Fred ended it. 

He admitted the only reason he asked her to the Ball was so that George would be jealous enough to muster the courage to ask her out. Fred had gravely miscalculated the depth of George’s feelings for Angelina and he didn’t want to hurt his twin any more than he already had. 

She didn’t mourn over their break-up, but Angelina was so angry at Fred for manipulating George she didn’t speak to him for three months. 

After the whole thing happened, Angelina considered asking George out about a hundred times. She always decided against it. She had never been a relationship girl. More of the meet-me-in-the-restricted-section type. 

Every daydream where Angelina asked out George ended in tears. Her favourite one was when her Quidditch rivalry with Miles Bletchley had finally reached a boiling point, forcing the two to shag on the pitch. Of course they had to get caught by Angelina’s heartbroken, and newly ex, boyfriend.

But Bletchley wasn’t around. And Angelina had grown up. 

As her lips pressed against George’s shoulder blade, she realised that all she wanted was to spend the night with him. She wanted to spend every night with George. She’d spent ages waiting to be ready for this moment. 

“If we did this and you regretted it tomorrow morning, it would kill me,” Angelina said, her voice hoarse with the toil of revealing herself.

George turned, only a fraction of an inch, and pulled her body against his. The duvet fell. Resting her cheek on his chest, she cherished their bodies, pressed against each other’s, warm and safe. 

“I’ve really strong feelings for you,” George said into her hair.

“I want to hear you say that when you’re sober.” 

“I’m not pissed.” Angelina murmured something that George took as disbelief. “I’m not, Angelina,” he insisted.

“People tell me they love me,” Angelina whispered. Her voice was fragile, as if she dared, hoped, for something to interrupt her. “When they only fancy the idea of me. One shag and their problems disappear. And it was always ... just easier to go along with it. 

“Lee was obsessed with me for seven years and never once asked what my favorite book was.” 

_ The Great Gatsby _ . It was the only book George had seen her reread in the entire time they’d known each other. He borrowed Hermione’s copy once and didn’t get what Angelina loved so much about it. But he loved the way her eyes shined when he asked her about the green light. 

Her voice was small. “D’you like me as a person?” 

“Of course,” he said, desperate. “Of course, that’s not even a question.” He kissed her forehead. “Please stay with me tonight. We won’t do anything,” George insisted as his lips moved to the underside of her chin. “I’ll say anything you want me to say in the morning.”

“I don’t want to leave,” she admitted. 

Their eyes met. George kissed her. Soft and light. Pure love. The pressure of his lips made Angelina’s stomach flutter. His hands cupped her cheeks, rubbing them gently with his thumbs.

He pulled away first, leaving Angelina breathless.

“C’mon,” George said as he plucked the duvet from the floor.

After crawling under the sheets and throwing on the duvet, George and Angelina lay side by side, their noses brushing against each other. 

“D’you remember the Hufflepuff game, fifth year?” Angelina whispered. George nodded. She continued, “Afterward, when you got a stiffy?”

George rolled his eyes. “You pulled my hair too hard.”

“I would’ve helped you with it if you made a move instead of running away,” she laughed. 

To her surprise, George frowned. “Would you have dated me back then?”

“I would’ve groped you in broom cupboards.” 

“Would you date me now?”

The butterflies again. “Ask me when you’re not pissed.”

* * *

When George Weasley woke up again, he heard sausages frying. The smell of pancakes wafted through the air. He glanced at the kitchen. 

Now, keep in mind, George hated pancakes. Couldn’t stomach them if his life depended on it. But the sight of Angelina Johnson in his old Quidditch jersey and lacy knickers made him absolutely ravenous. 

A stray curl cascaded down Angelina’s back, freed from a loose bun; George nuzzled a manic smile into his pillow. 

He crawled out of bed, slipped behind Angelina and draped his arms around her stomach. 

She jumped at his touch. “I turned one of your shirts into a toothbrush. Hope you don’t mind. Don’t know why really. Seeing that I’ve made pancakes. I can replace it.” Her body warmed. “D’you like pancakes? They’re banana. I can poach an egg.”

“Love ‘em,” George whispered, kissing her ear. 

“I take it you remember last night,” Angelina said, her voice raising several octaves.

Given that she frequently failed to sneak out post-coitus, Angelina had her fair share of morning afters. She’d never sweat until this one. 

“I wasn’t plastered,” he said, his lips at her neck.

“Sure.” 

George sighed. Easy wasn’t in the cards with Angelina. He smiled before pressing his lips against her shoulder blade. 

“I remember telling you how much I fancy you. To expand on that, I’ve fancied you since I was eleven. You’ve been my best mate since I was fourteen.”

“Oh,” Angelina murmured, “that late?”

“You did have three brothers, a twin, the best sister anyone could ask for, and Lee Jordan to compete with.” 

“Seriously? I thought Percy was the black sheep and all.” 

“Let’s go on a date tonight,” George said suddenly.

“We did that last night.”

“That was a fluke. We have to do everything proper, Angie. We’ll go on an awkward, but promising date. Even do the ‘Should I kiss her? Should I not?’ at the end. I won’t ring you for five days. We’ll go on four more dates before you finally invite me in for tea. We’ll have a big fight, break up, see other people, realize it’s not for us, and then move in together. I’ll carry the ring around for months until you yell at me to marry you. We’ll shag in the garden and get caught by gnomes on our wedding night. End up with a dog and two kids. You’ll have to get a job If you want a third.”

Holding back the grin that threatened to spread across her face, Angelina scratched her ear. “I’m interested. I want a cat though.”

“I’m allergic, but we can discuss.” 

“Hopefully our kids won’t inherit your weak genes.” 

“Prat!”

“Wanker,” she said with a kiss. 


End file.
